|
Chronicles of Arborell, Copyright Wayne Densley 2008 All Rights Reserved
|
 The night passed slowly. Overhead the sky revolved on its axis, Elanna and Shabel slowly moving in concert to the rise and fall of the stars as they arched overhead. Within the depression Mallen and Gremorgan slept restlessly, their travel blankets thin protection from a gathering wind that blew in ever increasing blusters from the north. In the quiet of their slumber the weather changed. A hint of chill came into the air, and upon the coaxing of the breeze cloud began to move from the far mountains. By dawn the sky was an overcast of grey, tinged with the dull red of a stifled sunrise. Morning came with rain and a numbing cold.
Mallen awoke first. He had been aware of the wind but when he opened his eyes he was met by the first fine mist of a swirling drizzle and he moved carefully in his blanket, testing aching feet and stretching his limbs as he untangled himself from his coverings. Within the bowl of the depression, and its border of thick bushes, he could see nothing of the outside world except the grey sky above. He did not hurry as he pulled his cloak about him. Long experience of living rough in the world had taught him that a cold day should be started with a warm meal and Gremorgan was not yet awake. He would wait for the Dwarvendim before starting breakfast.
With his cloak about him, and his hood raised against the misting rain he reached for his pack and checked its contents. He had picked the rucksack from a number that Greel had collected back in Callenfrey and he was pleased with his choice. It was well made and waterproof, he could only wonder as to who it might have previously belonged. As he looked at it he could not help but feel as if his life before the attack on his home had belonged to someone else as well. What he had experienced, and discovered, whilst journeying within the labyrinths of the Hra'gora had shaken the foundations of what he had believed about the world he lived in. The very existence of EarthMagic had been of no consequence to him, merely the stuff of campfire stories, but now he had witnessed it for himself and its reality was irrefutable. It would take him a while to get use to it.
Carefully he stowed his blanket and stood. The night had been cold and in the morning light he stretched his back and tried to get some feeling into fingers that had become stiff from the chill. His movement roused Gremorgan, and as the Dwarvendim coaxed their fire back into life Mallen put together the ingredients of a hot meal. The LoreMaster had brought with him a range of packaged foods that could be quickly turned into a warm breakfast, and in short order both men were sitting down to a stew comprised of dried meats and vegetables. As they ate Gremorgan turned over his thoughts about the day ahead.
"I think as long as the rain does not become too heavy that we should make good time on the plains below, Master Cael. The Hresh will have started early but they will be travelling as a large group and we should be able to make up some ground against them. It will be interesting to see what sign they leave in their wake."
Mallen looked at the LoreMaster, he was not sure exactly what his companion meant. "What do you mean? I would have thought the Hordim would leave nothing but bootprints."
Gremorgan nodded. "Aye, that they will. But in your experience you have probably only had the opportunity to track creatures of the forest or, in the case of the warband you followed, a group of lightly equipped warriors. If we are right and more than one group of the Hresh have joined together, then we are talking about a large mass of warriors moving through the plains below. You would be surprised what can fall from a soldier's equipment when they are intent upon moving quickly along their path. Anything dropped cannot be recovered and if the group is as large as I believe it to be, there should be some interesting pickings along the way for a set of keen eyes."
"What would you be looking for?" Mallen enquired carefully. He had no doubt the Dwarvendim was not interested in pilfering the loose detritus of the Hordim, there would be something else he would be searching for.
Gremorgan put down his plate and cleaned it with a wet cloth. His answer came as he carefully checked and packed his equipment. "Identification above all else. The Hordim mark their gear and anything dropped should give us a clearer indication of who we are following. From the details you gave in my quarters I am quite sure that it was Hresh of the Denmar Kraal that committed the assault upon Callenfrey, but they are not a large Clan in the scheme of things. At best they can muster no more than six hundred warriors and for the crue we follow there are far more than that. More than one Kraal is involved and I need to know which."
"Can it be that important though? Is not one Hresh just as bad as the next?"
Gremorgan shook his head, "The Denmar Hresh are in league with the Jotun of the West in their attempt to overthrow the power of the Mutan. Remember what I said in my quarters about the politics of the Hordim. The Mutan hold sway over all Hresh but are unaware that the Denmar Kraal have thrown their lot in with the Jotun. The other Hresh are not aware of this and would see the capture of the red-haired townspeople as purely the acquisition of slaves. At some time in the future the Denmar will try and get their captives away from the main group and send them on their way westwards to the Jotun. They will have to do this however, without the other Hresh noticing. The only question is how they will do that. For us it might prove the one time that we will have the opportunity to take your brother from them."
Mallen ate his food slowly, savouring its warm, rich taste and considered the Dwarvendim's words. He would need to think long and hard about how they might eventually recover Tomas from the clutches of the Hordim, but for the moment finding him alive was his only concern. Breakfast finished without further conversation.
In the cool of the morning the two men finished packing their gear and shouldered their belongings. In the overcast the world outside the depression was closed in by mist and scudding cloud. All that could be seen was the wet face of the cliffs at their back and the indeterminate slopes that lay before them to the west. All disappeared into the drizzle before them, and as they stood upon the lip of the depression Mallen could see little of their way ahead. Gremorgan set off immediately, his pace a shambling run that had his bags shifting on his back as he made his way towards the slope ahead. Before he could dissolve completely into the mists, Mallen went after him.
In the half-light of the overcast the two men made their way quickly down the sloping terrain. As they had seen on the previous night the table of rock upon which they had camped fell away in a series of shallow slopes to a wide plain below. By mid-morning they reached the base of the incline and found themselves upon a grassland interspersed with stands of trees and patches of thick bush. In the first days of Autumn the grasses were still brown and gave little resistance to the men as they searched the ground systematically for any sign of their quarry. It was not long before Gremorgan found a clear trail trampled into the soft earth. He knelt into the grasses and examined the edges of a bootprint stamped into the wet ground.
"We are in luck Mallen Cael, the Hresh have indeed passed this way, and recently too. They are no more than a half-day ahead of us if I judge the sign right."
Mallen bent into the grass and studied the print. The Dwarvendim was correct. Carefully he followed the direction of the imprint and found another a short distance ahead. It took only a few moments to find the grasslands to the north and west covered in similar marks.
With the direction of travel clear Mallen turned to Gremorgan and pointed into the west. "There can be no doubt that the group travels west at the run. These bootprints are too deep in the ground for creatures out for a casual stroll in the countryside, even those as heavy as the Hresh. It might be a good idea to find the northern extent of the tracks before we move on though."
"You're looking for breakaways aren't you?" asked Gremorgan.
Mallen smiled and nodded as he surveyed the way westwards. "I have had previous experience with this group. It would be wise to keep to the northern edge of their tracks. Any part of the Warband that separates from the main group will more than likely do so towards the north. If they are going to make for the Isirien River and the surrounding marshlands, they can only deviate in that direction."
Gremorgan was impressed. He waved his hand outward towards the west and let Mallen lead. "You know what you are doing Mallen Cael. In this I will let you take the front. The west awaits us."
The Kalborean accepted the invitation without hesitation. This was something Mallen knew well. The hunt was a speciality of his, and it was a skill he had spent many hungry years honing. Ahead the ground was open but interspersed with sparse stands of acacia. In the distance Mallen could see the ground changing however, the further they reached westwards the closer the grasslands became, trees falling away to be replaced by thickets of tangled thorny bushes. Within this patchwork of thorn and grass the Kalborean kept to the trail made by the Hresh. It was easy to follow, there were so many creatures in the group that the ground in parts was churned to mud. He knew though, that at any time the group could start separating in the same way that he had been deceived in the forests outside Callenfrey. Keeping to the northern edge of the tracks proved the best way to follow. The Hresh were moving quickly but the two men were moving faster. Something was holding the Hordim back and it was more than just the size of their number.
"Do you see it Gremorgan?" Mallen brought himself to a halt and pointed at the ground before him. "The tracks stop here, as if this part of the group had to wait for something. I have noticed this same pattern at frequent points along the way. For some reason they are continually halting and then moving on again."
Gremorgan had a look at the tracks. In the soft ground he could see clearly where creatures had come to a halt and then waited before moving on. "I could not tell you why they are stopping here for sure. The only possibility I can think of is that they have wounded."
"Wounded? I was always taught the Hordim killed their wounded."
The Dwarvendim shrugged his shoulders, "It is true that the Hordim have been known to kill injured warriors, but only when they are in a dire position where there is a chance of capture. Like ourselves they do not leave anyone behind unless it is absolutely necessary." He looked back to the east and smelled the air. For a moment Mallen watched as the LoreMaster became absolutely still and then he took a deep breath before turning back to the Kalborean.
"There is a chance that the Hresh may have been engaged in a skirmish of some sort. I can smell blood on the air and these pauses may be the Warband waiting for those helping the wounded. It will be a question that we cannot answer until we sight the crue for ourselves. Let us however, take advantage of any difficulties our quarry may have had put before them, eh?"
Mallen agreed. With the suns of Arborell reaching overhead the men ran, covering the ground quickly as they followed the tracks. In a straight line westwards the Hresh ran, then stopped and then ran again, a regular pattern that assured them both that they were indeed making ground on the Warband. By the hour after midday however, they needed to rest and a small stand of acacia looked most promising as a camp site. Gremorgan chose it and he had good reason.
"It is best that we rest out of sight. There can be found more than just the Hordim upon these wild plains, and it will do us well to ensure that we see any possible danger first before it spies us."
The acacia grove proved an excellent campsite with a small cleared area at its centre. The sky overhead had lifted as the morning had progressed and with clear patches of blue visible the light of the suns had placed the entire stand in shadows. From within its verge the two men could see unhindered what was taking place in the world outside and would remain disguised within its borders. After the efforts of the morning they took the time to rest and then eat a small amount of their provisions. Gremorgan seemed well pleased with their labours.
"We have done well Mallen Cael and it is possible that we are no more than a few hours behind the Warband. It is time that we consider how we will recover your brother from their grasp."
Mallen leaned forward and dragged the point of a long stick through the loose dirt at his feet. " I have been thinking about that. I'm not sure there is any way that we can get him, and make off with him, without the Hresh feeling very put out about it. When we do catch up with the crue we may have no choice but to follow them and then make a decision as to how best he can be rescued."
The Dwarvendim nodded and pulled a small piece of blue cloth from under his belt. "This gives me some hope that we may have the opportunity we need."
Mallen looked at it closely, it appeared to be a strip of torn clothing, possibly from a sleeve or collar.
"What is it?"
Gremorgan took it back and pushed it under his wide belt. "Remember I said to be careful for anything that might be dropped? I found this snagged on one of those thorny bushes about a kilometre back along the trail. This is important to us for it shows much about the distrust that festers within the Hordim. It may work to our advantage, and in fact I am sure that it will."
In the shadows of the acacia Mallen could not see the connection and Gremorgan saw in his companion's eyes no realisation of the cloth's importance.
"It is orange. All the Hresh code their gear, it makes disputes over equipment easier to adjudicate. The orange belongs to the Hresh of the Tomsk Kraal, one of the most numerous Clans amongst the Hresh and the most loyal to the Mutan. If they are here with the Denmar Hresh then it can only be for one reason, to keep an eye on them and ensure they follow the orders they have been given."
Mallen could see the connection now. "So, if the Hresh who attacked Callenfrey are holding Tomas for their own purposes, they can't do anything about spiriting him off to the Jotun until the eyes of the other Hresh are firmly fixed elsewhere."
"That's the idea. If we are right then we need only follow the Warband until the Denmar Hresh make their move. It will be then that we may have the opening we need to get him back."
Mallen smiled at the irony of such a circumstance. Still, it was just supposition until such time as they could gain a clearer view of the Warband itself. The reality could turn out to be far more brutal than either he or Gremorgan could imagine.
When they had taken the time to rest and eat a small meal, both men began the task of preparing to move on. Mallen stood, stretching out his arms as he reached for his pack. He looked to Gremorgan and immediately froze, the Dwarvendim had not moved from his place in the clearing, the look on his face leaving no question in Mallen's mind that something was wrong.
"What is it?" Mallen whispered. Gremorgan slowly raised his hand and made motion for the Kalborean to get as low as possible. Carefully he complied, turning in the direction that the LoreMaster had been staring. From within the border of the grove Mallen looked out over the grassland to the south and saw the unmistakable forms of Hresh moving towards them. As he watched more of the creatures appeared out of the grasses, a long line of warriors that stopped no more than a stone's throw from where Gremorgan and himself where now hidden.
Gremorgan moved close to where Mallen lay and tapped him on the shoulder, pointing out towards a single Hresh who held a banner unfurled upon a long spear. "These are Hresh of the Denmar Kraal. Notice the sky blue markings on the banner, I have seen such colours before. These are the warriors who pursued us in the Hall of Whispers."
"The rearguard?" whispered Mallen.
"Yes. And if I'm not mistaken they are about to make camp."
Both men watched as the Hresh began to fan out upon the grasses south of their hiding place. The Hresh had chosen a stand of acacia only fifty metres from where they lay as the centre of their camp and begun quickly to establish a defensive perimeter around it. Mallen could see at least a couple of hundred warriors and they set up their encampment in a predetermined, organised manner. Within minutes tents had been pitched and a wide circle of sentries established around the central acacia grove. One of these sentries stood only a short distance from where Gremorgan and Mallen lay quietly in the shadows, the creature's presence making any movement or conversation impossible.
The afternoon wore on as the two men watched the Hresh warriors going about there business. Neither could speak but Mallen found the sight of so many of the enemy so close compelling. He watched everything they did, and what struck him most about there encampment was how mundane it all was. He had expected fighting, cruelty and violence but instead he watched as warriors repaired equipment, cleaned weapons and cooked meals on small portable fires. At the centre of the camp stood one large tent, and it became apparent quickly that the commander of the crue was there, a constant stream of warriors entering and leaving as the warband went about its daily routine. Only once did he see the Commander himself, and in the bright light of the afternoon Mallen felt his blood run cold. The Hresh was as dark as the night and stood before his tent encased in an ornate set of battle armour. The creature looked exactly as Mallen could remember the Hresh who had stood over him in his dream, and the realisation of that shook him.
They could do nothing except watch the warband and wait for them to leave. Sentries changed, patrols went out into the grasslands and returned, and the suns of Arborell swung their way westwards. By dusk both Mallen and Gremorgan knew that they had lost a chance to catch up with the Warband they had been tracking. By nightfall, the low fires of the encampment lay as the only illumination in the gloom, but the sentries had been pulled in closer to the acacia and this gave Gremorgan the chance to speak.
"Who would have thought we could be stymied in such a fashion eh?" he whispered into Mallen's ear. The Kalborean nodded and cocked his head westwards.
"We have lost half a day at least, and who knows how long the Hresh will make their camp here. Is their any way we can get away in the dark?"
Gremorgan raised his head slightly and peered out into the nest of fires and movement before him. "We could but it would be to no good outcome. We cannot track the other crue in the night and these Hresh still have patrols out upon the plains. There is too much chance that we will be stumbled across in the dark."
"What can we do then? We will lose too much time if we wait here all night for them to leave."
"I am afraid Mallen Cael that we have no choice. We cannot move on until they do, but this may work to our advantage anyway. As a rearguard we can assume that they have achieved their objective and are now on their way to return to the main group. They will not be as hampered by numbers as the other and will make their way to some predetermined meeting point as quickly as possible. Perhaps our best bet is to follow these Hresh, if Providence graces us they should lead us straight to the main warband."
Mallen slumped on to the dry ground and looked through the thin branches of the acacia to the stars above. He could not see any way around it, they would have to spend the night here as well.
Gremorgan sat up against the nearest trunk and made himself comfortable. "We will need to sleep now but we will have to take turns keeping watch. I will take the first watch, I will wake you at midnight. And Mallen Cael, try not to be too disheartened, it could after all be much worse."
Mallen looked at the LoreMaster. "How so?"
The Dwarvendim smiled and bent his head towards the camp. "They could have chosen this stand of acacia as their latrine. I am thankful that they did not."
The night passed without incident. As he had promised Gremorgan woke Mallen at midnight and then settled himself for sleep. In the quiet of the night there was no sound other than the light rustle of a breeze blowing its way through the sparse branches of the trees. Mallen took up Gremorgan's position and began his watch. Of the Hresh he could hear nothing. Their camp was utterly dark, the only sign of movement the regular changing of sentries and the occasional flapping of a tent cover in the light wind. By the first hour before sunrise the ground was flooded with pale light from the two moons of Arborell as they dropped to the west, and it was then that the Hresh encampment returned to life.
Without order or command the warriors rose from their resting places and began a well-ordered breaking of camp. Tents were pulled down and in the half-light meals were prepared and then equipment stowed. Within twenty minutes the warband was ready to travel and it was only then that Mallen moved to wake Gremorgan. Carefully he crawled over to where the Dwarvendim slept and lightly shook his shoulder. Gremorgan's eyes sprung open, and it was as the big man was raising himself that Mallen heard the Hresh singing.
Out of the night's gloomy shroud the sound of hundreds of voices rose as a low growling hymn, a dirge of lament that filled the air with its strange harmonies. In the quiet of the early morning the warriors were standing, facing the setting moons, and in the light were silhouetted against their disappearing glow. The song was only short, a few verses that rose and fell before being cut off by the sharp cry of their commander to return to their journey. What struck Mallen was not the words, he could not understand any of it. What struck him was the emotion of those singing it, the absolute sadness of the warriors as they sung to the setting moons. It unsettled Mallen greatly.
Gremorgan found a place beside the Kalborean and watched as the crue ordered themselves into unit formations and then made their way westwards. Both men heaved a collective sigh of relief before sinking to the ground and reflecting on how close they had come to discovery. Mallen could not keep the Hresh's song from his thoughts.
"What was that song they sung Gremorgan?"
"It is the enkara, a song of mourning. It is common practice for the Hresh to pay tribute to the setting moons when practicable. It is sacred to them."
Mallen looked again to the west and pulled his pack to him. He felt very hungry.
"What does it mean?" he asked as he fished about inside its contents.
"The enkara reminds them of all they have lost, and provides them with the resolve to fight harder to get it back. The moons that fall in the west and resurrect themselves in the east are a potent symbol to the Hordim, a reminder that everything lost can be recovered."
Together the two men ate and then prepared to break camp. Mallen took the opportunity to eat a small piece of Nahla bread, not much, just enough to restore the strength to his legs and back. His watch had left him stiff and sore and the regenerative power of the bread flowed through him like a hot tonic. Gremorgan saw what he was doing and cautioned him.
"Be careful with the bread Mallen Cael. There may come a time when it will be all we have to eat. It will be best left until we need it most."
Mallen nodded but did not regret its consumption. He felt fit to travel and had needed the help the Nahla had given him. One day, he thought absentmindedly, he should ask how it was made. While Gremorgan finished his preparation for the day's travel, Mallen stepped out on to the early morning grasslands. The air was cool but not chill, and the sky was clear of any cloud or sign of weather. With luck it was going to be a fine day. While he stood in the deep grasses at the verge of the acacia grove he breathed in the morning air and felt the power of the Nahla surge through him. Today he knew they would take up the chase in earnest and he was ready for it.
Gremorgan arose from the shadows of the trees with bags strung across his wide shoulders and a look of grim determination on his face. The heavy travel cloak was missing, replaced by a lighter, open-necked leather jerkin.
"We have given the warband enough of a start. Are you ready?"
Mallen nodded his head and took the lead. Gremorgan had determined that the Kalborean was better skilled to track the Hresh and fell in behind as they move off into the grasslands. The tracks were clearly visible in the soft earth. Long lines of broken grasses gave unmistakable track lines that led off into the west. These Mallen followed, checking the ground for sign of any separation of the group as he went.
The twin suns of morning broke the horizon just as Mallen and Gremorgan reached the borders of the Marshlands. Here the nature of the terrain changed, the ground a growing patchwork of dry and wet areas, which quickly turned into shallow meres and boglands. Mallen had been surprised that they had reached the edges of the marshes so quickly but he had no time to concern himself with it. On the open plains the trampled grasses had been an easy trail to follow. Upon the edges of the marshlands the tracks became far more disordered. There was now no doubt that the Hresh were not going to skirt the glades, they had passed into the wetlands and disappeared.
It was here that Mallen had to stop. Ahead spread the bogs and mires of the Isirien River. It was a place Mallen had never ventured into, and for good reason. Here could be found fell creatures that lurked in the swamps, waiting patiently for an unwary traveller to make the mistake of trying to pass through. The reputation of the Mireglades was not to be taken lightly.
"Are you sure that we must pass through this mire?" he asked.
Gremorgan nodded and waved his hand in a wide arc. "I am afraid so. Unlike the labyrinths of the Hra'gora there are too many ways here that the Hresh can leave. We will have to follow them whichever way they may travel."
The Kalborean knew the history of this place and he hesitated, but only for a moment. The Mireglades had once been a fertile plain, covered in farmlands and vineyards. Early in the history of Kalborea settlers reached into the interior of Arborell and found rich soil on the banks of the Isirien. Farms and townships soon sprang up and with a need for water to irrigate the outlying regions, the river itself was dammed and most of its water diverted into a network of channels and ditches that fed a wide area of farmlands surrounding it. The Isirien could not be held captive though. What the farmers and engineers did not know was that the river changed its course regularly, and when it did, the waters of the Isirien flooded the farmlands and swept away the settlements that had grown along its banks.
For a century the settlers fought against its advances, building dikes and levees to hold back the waters, but it was to no avail. Each season brought new floods and slowly the river itself silted up, clogging its channels with soil and spreading out over the plain, forming the Mireglades and awakening creatures beneath it that used the dark waters as lairs for their malevolence. Few people tried to cross it. Fewer succeeded in doing so. Mallen took a deep breath and followed the tracks in.
The Hresh knew where they were going, but the warbands that had passed this way before had separated and rejoined at many points, breaking up their numbers as they used different trails to forge ahead quickly within the increasingly dank terrain of the Marshes. Mallen could not follow all the trails so he kept to those that led directly westwards and in doing so was able to maintain contact with the largest group.
The morning wore on, the trail a network of dry ground that skirted small lakes, and areas of putrid mud that grew larger as they travelled west. At the edges of the meres grew large dome-like hedges that bordered the water as walls of vegetation, concealing movement along the pathways and choking the narrow spaces that provided the only dry land in the marshes. Dead trees thrust great gnarled fingers into the air and everywhere was the sounds of birds and insect life, a cacophony of cries and calls that rose in a chorus that muffled any sounds the two men may have left as they pursued their quarry.
By mid-morning the multitudes of pathways had come together in one main animal trail that weaved its way between the bogs that crowded the ground around them. Mallen was determined to keep up the chase but the LoreMaster pulled him back with a word of caution.
"It is best that we do not travel too quickly here. The Hresh have been forced to concentrate their numbers on this one path and that can only mean that they will be moving very slowly. We should take our time so that we do not stumble upon them within the confines of the marshes. It would be better for us that any accidental confrontation should occur on the other side of these wetlands."
Mallen nodded, "Should we take the opportunity to rest then?"
"No, we'll just walk this part of the trail, perhaps take the time to enjoy our surroundings eh?"
The Kalborean could not see anything enjoyable in the bogs and meres of this wetland but he knew Gremorgan was right. In places the path was barely shoulder wide, falling away on both sides into either lake or putrefying mud. The Hresh would be hemmed in by the terrain, unable to move in anything other than single file. It would slow them down considerably and he had no wish to stumble upon them in broad daylight in such a place.
By midday the two men were deep in the watery domain of the marshlands. Areas of dry ground had become scarce and when Mallen walked into a wide, clear area of dry grass he knew they had found the perfect place to rest and take food. Almost the entire area had been trampled flat, it looked as if the warband had spent some time here as well, and in the sudden openness of the clearing he immediately felt vulnerable. Retreating to the closeness of the path he put up his hand for Gremorgan to stop and listened hard for any fragment of proof that they might not be alone. The Dwarvendim could see what Mallen was doing and searched the edges of the clearing for any hint of an ambush. There was none. The Hresh had moved on.
Carefully both men moved out into the bright light and found a position in the shade of an old dead elm. Here they took the time to relax and eat a hurried meal. As they ate Mallen looked over the clearing and considered the strangeness of their hunt. They were following a warband of Hresh, who, in their turn were following a larger band of Hresh. So far he had found no sign that the Hordim had split at all. In fact, the terrain did not allow it. That meant that there was every chance both groups passed through this clearing...
"Gremorgan."
The Dwarvendim was eating and looked up at his companion. Mallen was more than excited as he jumped to his feet.
"We need to search this clearing."
With a shrug of his shoulders the LoreMaster struggled to his feet. "And what might we be searching for?"
"Anything that might prove my brother has been here. There is a chance that both Warbands passed this way. If that is the case then there may be something of his left behind."
Gremorgan arose from his food and began to trace a systematic path across the clearing, but he was unsure what Mallen would be expecting. "What is it you think he might have left here?"
The Kalborean was looking through the bushes at the edge of the dry ground and stopped only to answer, "My brother is the most disorganised person you will find in any village of the Union. His pockets are always full of bits and pieces, nuts and screws, used lengths of solder, anything he doesn't have time to find a place to set down. Whether he was conscious or not, such things will fall from him. If he was here there may be something left behind."
Gremorgan nodded and continued the search. The clearing was probably only forty-five metres in length and half as wide, but most of its surface was broken by hundreds of bootprints. Mallen studied the ground, looking for that tell-tale glimmer of something metallic pressed into the soil. Together they searched, combing the ground for sign, but found nothing. Within the debris of crushed foliage and flattened grass they uncovered ample evidence of the occupation of the clearing by the Hordim, but nothing that could indicate his brother had been there. It had been a hope that had proved fruitless, and Mallen walked back to the old elm and slumped against its rough trunk. Gremorgan joined him and returned to his meal.
"Do not worry Master Cael, we are on the right track, we will just have to trust in Providence and the soundness of our collective judgement."
Mallen opened his pack and pulled out a square block of cheese wrapped in waterproof papers. "Your judgement I trust in, it would have been good to find some sign though."
The two ate and then organised themselves for their return to the trail. Gremorgan re-packed his bags and in the light of the afternoon suns took a drink from his canteen. With the first gulp he gagged and spat the water on to the ground.
"By the Fates, what is this?"
Mallen ran to him, "What is it Gremorgan?" The Dwarvendim had his fingers in his mouth and was trying to pull something from inside his throat. Carefully it came out, it was a long thread of hair.
Mallen recognised it immediately. "Where did you hang your canteen?" Gremorgan pointed to a broken limb of the elm and the Kalborean ran to it, carefully studying its broken surface. Sure enough, he found more of the threads, almost a handful, stuffed into a crack in the trunk. It was red hair.
The Dwarvendim saw what he had in his hand and smiled. "Well, we are indeed on the right track, are we not? I am surprised though that your brother's hair should be this long."
Mallen shook his head and played the threads of hair out to their fullest extent. Some were a good metre in length. "This is not Tomas' hair. His would extend only a third of this length. This is the hair of a women, and if I am right it is Shemwe's"
"Your brother's fiancee?"
"Yes. Wherever she is, he will be found. Of this I am sure."
With a new hope growing Mallen collected his pack and both men then took up the pursuit once more. In the warmth of the afternoon they moved quickly, following the winding trail as it navigated its way through the maze of meres and swamps that made up the marshlands. Somewhere ahead was the Isirien River, a tributary of the Laneslem to the south, and one of the widest rivers to be found in Arborell. Mallen had heard many stories of the creatures that lived within its wet confines but he was afraid of only one, and it was his fervent hope that their travels would steer them far from any chance of meeting it.
The twin suns arched towards the western horizon as the companions continued their hunt. For Mallen it was an easy task, the tracks clear in the spongy ground, a stiff breeze now masking any sound of their movement. The wind was expected, a regular part of the change of seasons in this part of Kalborea. Mallen looked north of west and found a bank of cloud building upon the horizon. If they were lucky it would blow southwards, but he had always entertained the idea that the hand of Providence never made life easy for a traveller of the wilds, and he made a mental note to pull out his travel cloak at their next place of rest.
In the growing bluster of the wind, the two men moved carefully along the paths, their movements hidden by the thick vegetation that grew haphazardly along the edges of the swamps. At intervals the walls of green were broken and Mallen was able to see wide areas of water, broken only by the dead hands of hundreds of drowned trees reaching skyward, slowly rotting in their watery graves. In this world they were not alone. Vast flocks of waterbirds fed within the marshes, more circled in the air above, and frequently Mallen could see darker shapes sliding beneath the surface of the meres, huge creatures that moved slowly out of sight, never showing themselves to the full light of day.
The Kalborean turned to warn Gremorgan that there was something in the waters to their right, but he did not get the chance. In an explosion of water a multitude of long rope-like tentacles snaked out of the mere, flailing the soft earth, searching the ground for a purchase and finding it around the legs of the Dwarvendim. In an instant Gremorgan was on the ground, being dragged quickly into the bushes that bordered the path.
"Trippets!" shouted Mallen. Before the Dwarvendim could be pulled out of sight the Kalborean sprang to action. In one quick movement he drew his sword and leapt into the path of the writhing tentacles, cutting through them with a swinging slice of his blade. At that point the world around Mallen dissolved into a chaos of broken ground and smashed vegetation. In a flurry of severed limbs one creature withdrew only to have more burst from both sides of the trail. It was an ambush.
Gremorgan disentangled himself from the cut tentacles only to find himself enmeshed in the limbs of another that threw a host of new rope-like arms in his direction. With a practised hand he pulled his axe from its sheath at his back and hacked at the tentacles, forcing it to retreat. When he was clear both men moved to the centre of the path. There was precious little space to defend themselves in, the bushes on all sides seething with tentacles, reaching out along the path, trying to grasp them. Beyond the bushes Mallen could see the huge bulks of at least six enormous creatures. All avenues of escape had been cut off.
"What did you call these things?" shouted Gremorgan as he swung at another set of flailing tentacles.
"Trippets. At least that's what I think they are. I count six at the most."
Before either could speak again the creatures drove forward, crushing the bushes under their huge weight as they struggled to get at the two men. Limbs snaked towards Mallen and he sliced the air, cutting three of the tentacles down. Enraged the Trippet lunged at the Kalborean and it was only then that he realised most of the bulk of the animal was still in the water. It was a huge leech-like monster, a flurry of tentacles snaking from its mouth as it grasped the air for a hold on the men. Mallen could see no eyes, it was feeling for them, aware of them only by the vibrations of their foot-falls. Gremorgan saw this as well.
"The creatures cannot see, if we are to force them to withdraw we must not make it worthwhile for them to stay. Cut at everything you see, the more pain we cause the more likely they will move on."
Mallen could not see how they could fight against such huge creatures but he took a deep breath and ran at the nearest Trippet. Tentacles came from all directions and Mallen hacked at them like a madman, pieces of the monster flying in all directions as he edged closer to its body. In the chaos of the assault one tentacle hit him fairly across the shoulder and threw him to the ground. Sensing a kill at hand the Trippet pulled itself closer and in the pause Mallen regained his feet and stabbed straight at the creature's mouth. In a spasm of pain the monster fell back and slid out of sight into the dark waters at its back. The fight was far from over however.
The Kalborean turned to see Gremorgan caught between two of the monsters, his huge form wrapped in tentacles that were pulling him one way, and then the other as both Trippets tried to have him for themselves. Mallen ran to him and hacked at the limbs forcing both to give up their prize. Together the men cut into the beasts, slicing great welts into their sides and leaving huge pieces of gelatinous flesh hanging from their slug-like bodies. It was then that the bush around them exploded once more.
Tentacles flew in all directions as the monsters attempted to escape the source of their pain. Pushing backwards the Trippets let out howls of rage and thrashed about as they attempted to regain the safety of the waters and the darkness below. In great tremors of rage two of the beasts withdrew, flailing their remaining limbs in vain attempts to crush their adversaries. With the two Trippets in retreat the path ahead was left open and Mallen and Gremorgan needed no invitation to use the opportunity to escape. Together they ran, the remaining monsters smashing the ground behind them before withdrawing to their watery lairs.
Mallen did not look back. He had heard of the creatures but had never thought in his wildest dreams they would be so huge. With the heat of the battle propelling him forwards he ran as hard as he could, keeping to the pathways but taking no care to follow the bootprints of his quarry. When he came to rest he stood exposed upon an open piece of ground, the brush falling away behind as he found himself in a wide clearing. He realised with a cold shiver that Gremorgan was not behind him.
Cursing his carelessness he began to retrace his steps. The Dwarvendim had been at his back, he could not see how they might have become separated, but somehow they had and he needed to find him. By the time he reached a small fork in the path he had recovered most of his composure and with a cooler head began to watch for any sign of his friend. Quickly he found it. A clear set of prints led along the path that he had not taken. They were unmistakable as those of the LoreMaster, but there was something else, another set of boot marks that followed behind him. Gremorgan was being pursued.
Mallen drew his sword and charged down the new path. His mind was full of possibilities, the tracks were not Hresh but human, smaller than Gremorgan's and lighter upon the soft earth. Whoever was following the LoreMaster was small, and very good at what they did. He had seen no sign of anybody behind them and for whatever reason the unknown traveller was hot on the Dwarvendim's trail. The Kalborean gripped his sword all the harder as he raced down the path.
Suddenly a huge shape disgorged itself from the brush at the side of the trail and fell upon Mallen, knocking the wind from him and throwing him to the ground. In an instant Mallen recognised his attacker as Gremorgan, but the Dwarvendim clamped his hand upon the Kalborean's mouth and made a sign to be silent. Mallen relaxed and waited, he could see Gremorgan was listening for something.
"Did you see it?" he whispered into Mallen's ear. Mallen could not respond, he just shook his head. He had to assume Gremorgan was talking about whoever was following him, but he could do nothing until the huge man took his arm from across his chest.
Gremorgan waited for a short time and then released his grip. He had a look of grave concern on his face. Carefully he pulled himself into a crouch and gave Mallen back his freedom. The Kalborean rubbed at his chest and brushed dirt and leaf litter from his clothing.
"What was it Gremorgan? Did you see who was following you?"
Gremorgan shook his head and kept his eyes peeled on the track behind them. He was not convinced his pursuer was gone. "I tell you Mallen Cael, I was hard on your heels when I heard something coming up behind us. When we reached the fork in the path I went the other way, thinking that if we were being followed, our pursuer would be forced to make a choice and that I might be able to turn that choice to our advantage. Got to this point here and waited, hoping I could jump them from the bushes but caught you instead."
Mallen looked back along the track. "I saw nothing, just the prints of someone after you."
"It was a surprise to me as well. Whoever may be after us is a master of their craft. We will need to be careful."
Both men sat in the obscurity of the bushes and waited for some sign of the mysterious stranger but none came. It was Gremorgan who moved first, standing and helping Mallen to his feet.
"We cannot wait for whoever it might be to show themselves. The Hresh must now be a fair distance ahead of us and the suns will set soon enough. It would be good for us to be out of the Mireglades before they do."
Mallen agreed. He did not wish to spend a single night within these wetlands.
Again they returned to the trail and Mallen found the signs of Hresh embedded in the soft earth of a path that led directly to the west. With all the speed they could muster they ran, the wetlands passing before them as a blur of greenery and still waters as they followed the Warband. It was not until dusk that they found themselves upon the banks of the Isirien River.
Mallen looked across the wide waters of the Isirien and knew then that they would not be crossing until morning. They had followed the Hresh to the shallow banks of the river and now stood at the threshold of a series of rock strewn fords that ran haphazardly across its breadth. The Hordim had chosen one of the few places that it was possible to cross the river on foot, but Gremorgan and Mallen had arrived to late to take advantage of it. Already the suns of Arborell were edging the western horizon and the two men looked directly into their glare as they surveyed the scattered ford. Its crossing would have to wait for the new day.
"We have arrived too late I am afraid." Gremorgan remarked as he threw a small stone into the languid waters. "Our only concern for now must be to find a safe place to pass the night. I do not fancy another encounter with those Trippets as you call them."
Mallen nodded his agreement and surveyed the surrounding lands for some safe shelter. He found it to their north. Set a short distance from the banks of the Isirien stood a huge shattered Oak, long dead, but still standing tall, a victim of relentless floods and the changing course of the river. It was dead but it still held its upper limbs, and although gnarled and twisted from centuries of struggle for life it looked sound. Its high branches would provide the sanctuary they needed.
"There we should find safety for the night." Mallen proclaimed, pointing to the old Oak and Gremorgan agreed. Anywhere was better than being caught out in the open in the gloom of night. "But we will have to be off the ground before nightfall. Who knows what dangers may lurk here."
Together they followed the stony bank of the river and found the base of the tree submerged in a shallow pool, surrounded on all sides by bush and thick mats of reeds. Gremorgan cut a wide swathe of the reeds and bundled them together with a short piece of rope. "Bedding." was all he said as he hoisted the bundle upon his shoulder.
The Tree proved easy to climb, its twisted trunk giving easy purchase as they made their way carefully to its bare canopy of broken branches. It was there that they found a wide crook at the spreading of three huge limbs and made what provision they could for food and rest. By the fall of night they had made their camp and sat nestled within the intersection of the limbs, eating Nahla bread and small portions of dried meat. Before them spread the wide meander of the Isirien and the dark patchwork of the Mireglades. Mallen fell into sleep easily but Gremorgan waited in the dark, watching the lands about their perch for any sign of danger.
In the total darkness of a moonless night the Dwarvendim sat upon his bed of reeds and surveyed the lands about him. The Isirien flowed from the north, meeting with the Laneslem River some distance southwards. Across the breadth of his gaze he could see no sign of life, only the slow passage of clouds carried upon a light breeze, and the gentle swaying of the rushes at the edge of the river. It was a while before he noticed the solitary light that shone out from the darkness, a small beacon alone in the gloom of night. It was a campfire.
With eyes focused upon the light he concentrated on its glow, trying to ascertain anything he could about its origin. In the dark it was impossible to gauge how far away it might be but he knew it wasn't the Hresh. The fire burned to the east, the Hresh had already passed beyond the Isirien and had no doubt found their own haven for the night somewhere upon the plains westwards. Whoever enjoyed the warmth of this fire was keeping some distance from their position. He could not help but think that beside the warmth of that fire might lay the man who had been tracking them, and who had so easily avoided their notice until now.
Gremorgan entertained the idea of keeping watch for a while but he could feel in his bones the fatigue of the day's travel. The pool of water and its beds of rushes would provide ample warning of anyone's approach, their height above the ground would give them the time to react to any dangers. Instead he lay back upon his bed of reeds and watched the sky roll across his gaze. He had much to consider and no energy to do it, and quickly fell into sleep himself.
Morning greeted both Men with fog and the cool embrace of a northerly wind. There was little to be seen upon the ground below, all was obscured by a thick mist that swirled around the tree before moving slowly southwards with the flow of the nearby Isirien. In the cold of the morning there was little sound and no sign of life around them.
"We might as well make some breakfast and take our time about it," suggested Gremorgan as he pulled together his reed bedding and threw it out into the mist below. "We won't be going anywhere until this fog lifts."
Mallen swung his legs off the edge of one of the old limbs and pulled his pack to him. He had ceased wondering if there could be any more ways that Providence could delay them.
"How far ahead do you think the Hresh must now be?"
Gremorgan looked out into the mists and scratched at his chest. "The only thing I can be sure of is that they have crossed the river. Judging by the state of their tracks we are still close but they must have at least a half day on us."
Mallen agreed and watched as the sky above lightened, turning from dull red to blue as the suns of morning rose slowly in the east. It would not take long for the light of day to disperse the fog and then they could get on their way. He waited quietly, chewing at the sparse fare of a cold breakfast and watched as the fog slowly rolled on its way. Then he saw a shadowy figure appear out of the mist directly below their position in the old tree. Carefully he tapped at Gremorgan's shoulder and put his finger to his lips before pointing down at the edges of the reeds below them. Gremorgan understood and said nothing. Together they watched as the figure came into clearer view.
Whoever it was was certainly human, small of stature, his clothing tattered and worn from long travels. Neither men could see anything of the person's features, the morning still shrouded the ground in semi-darkness but the figure moved with a purpose, carefully checking the ground to the south of the reed-pool and inspecting the patch of cut reeds at its edge before moving off towards the river. Before the stranger had moved ten metres he was swallowed up in the mists and disappeared back into the anonymity of the gloom below.
When Mallen was sure the man had departed he looked at Gremorgan and grabbed at his pack. "We need to get moving, this journey is becoming altogether too crowded. Do you have any idea who that man was?"
Gremorgan shook his head. "None, but I don't think it was any man."
Mallen stopped what he was doing and looked at the Dwarvendim. "It looked human to me, just not that big."
The LoreMaster smiled and grabbed at his own bags. "Aye, not that big. But did you not notice the mannerisms of the man as he checked the edge of the pool? By the way the person was moving and the nature of their stature I would say that we are being tracked by a girl, probably no older than her late teens. And for the life of me I could not say why she would be out here. This is no place even for the hardest of Men."
The Kalborean took in the idea of their shadowy nemesis being a girl and had to concede that he was impressed. "Well, girl or no, I will have to say that when I meet whoever it is I'll find out how they pulled that vanishing trick. Never seen anything like it."
Within the first half hour after sunrise the fog lifted, revealing the wide breadth of the Isirien once again. From their vantage point in the tree Mallen could see a series of disjointed banks of sand and stone blocks that made up the ford they would use to cross the Isirien. This particular crossing had once been a long levee used by early settlers to divert the waters of the river in the summer when it had been most needed for irrigation. Now it was a ruin, but a convenient point to traverse the slow moving waters.
Mallen was first down on to the soft earth by the reed-pool. While Gremorgan made his way out of the tree, he went to work on the tracks left by their mysterious visitor and found that Gremorgan's surmise about her probably correct. The boot size of her tracks was small and shallow even in the soft mud at the pool's edge. If she came to any more than half his own weight he would be surprised. Still, even a small girl can wield a razor-sharp dagger if that was her intent. He would need to be mindful now, not only of their quarry, the Hresh, but also this girl, whose motivations were unknown to him.
With the fog lifting the two men made it back to the ford and ensured their packs and bags were secure. Ahead of them lay the long line of broken stone and shallow banks of sand that would provide their crossing and they did not hesitate to take it. The Isirien was wide but not deep, the ford more an opportunity to avoid getting wet than the only possible way across. By a process of jumping and careful navigation they made it to the opposite bank without difficulty, wet boots their only discomfort. Then they picked up the trail again.
The Hresh had used the same ford but had not been concerned about discomfort. Hundreds of the creatures had forged into the current and used the shallow banks of sand of the ford to keep a purchase as they ploughed into the waters and waded to the other side. Mallen found a swath of ground at the river's edge that had been trampled and churned by the Hordim as they made the opposite bank and clambered up into the surrounding scrublands. The tracks left behind were clear and they all pointed westwards.
With Gremorgan behind, the young Kalborean set to the trail and found the Hordim concentrating their number in a long line that snaked down a series of wide, well-used paths that led from areas of marshland at the river's edge into a terrain of rising ground that left the wetlands behind, and slowly changed to a wide plain of rolling grasslands. Here the ground hardened, the grasses becoming sparser and the trail less defined. But nothing could stop Mallen now. He was on a scent, one that led to his brother and he focused all the skills and experience he had to the task. The Dwarvendim kept close at his heels, watching the surrounding terrain for any signs of danger as his companion followed the trail. It was an exhausting process, but one that Mallen had been honed to over the course of a hard life, and which he found himself enjoying as he worked his way westwards.
By noon the day had warmed considerably, the cold breezes of the morning dying away as the suns rose to their zenith. All vestiges of the marshlands had disappeared and by the time the two men had stopped to take lunch, they were firmly settled along a thin trail of indistinct bootprints that continued to lead westwards. About them spread the vast openness of a featureless grassland that met the horizon in all directions and gave Mallen the impression that they were completely alone in a world of grass and sky.
Lunch was taken quickly, and in the first hour after noon they applied themselves to the trail once more. Without a word the men moved quickly, at a half-run that conserved their energy but allowed them to cover great distances between rests. Mallen had his head to the ground, searching the grasses for prints and anything else that might define the trail. Gremorgan kept a look out, sure that his companion knew exactly what he was doing. Together they crossed the plains of grass until out of the centre of the vast expanses they came upon the ruin of an old homestead. It was here the trail changed direction.
"What do you see?" asked Gremorgan.
Mallen pointed at a number of blackened areas on the ground and then moved behind the ruined building, surveying the ground before looking northwards.
"This was where the Hresh spent the night, there are the ashes of campfires in a wide perimeter here, and the bootprints of a large number of Hordim. They have covered their encampment well but you can't disguise the damage of that many iron-shod feet. Judging by the sign left behind they decamped in that direction." He pointed just slightly west of north and looked at Gremorgan. "Do you know where they go?"
The Dwarvendim cupped his hands over his brow and peered into the warmth of the afternoon. On the horizon he could see only the endless grassland and the indistinct silhouettes of mountain tops to the north-east.
"They are heading west of Nargel's Hold, which surprises me, keeping to the open grasses, making for the plains of Surgis'Ka. Their Warband must now be so large that they have decided the best way to move quickly is upon the plains northwards. We will be hard pressed to keep up."
Mallen nodded and then smiled at the Dwarvendim, "Let's not keep them waiting then."
Together they disappeared in the grasslands, their determination matched only by the vastness of the plains ahead.
Home | Maps | Back to Contents Page | Next Episode
|
This site, and associated books and other documents are the intellectual property of the author, Wayne F Densley, and all rights are reserved by him. Unless otherwise stated all books in this series should be viewed at a 1024 x 768 resolution or higher. Any questions regarding the Chronicles of Arborell can be answered by emailing the author at densleyw@shoal.net.au
|
Chronicles of Arborell, Copyright Wayne Densley 2005 All Rights Reserved
|
